Sempre in the Key of E
by Billy4Me
Summary: I have never known how to describe my love, but I have always measured it in Christmases. Entry for A Very Phantom Christmas One-Shot contest.


**A/N:** I am a longtime reader of POTO fanfiction, but this is my first attempt at writing it. A Christmas one-shot contest seemed like an ideal opportunity to venture forth into this world. Wish me luck.

My first love was ALW's musical with Michael Crawford as the Phantom. Crawford's flawless tenor is what my inner ear hears as Erik's voice and, if this story prompts you to seek out his "All I Ask of You" reprise on YouTube, I will consider this a raging success. He will forever be the one I envision as the character but you, dear reader, are certainly free to imagine whomever you'd like. That is the beauty of being the reader.

 **Disclaimer:** It's pretty clear I own nothing. If I did, I certainly wouldn't be writing these characters without receiving royalties from them.

 **Enjoy!**

 _Dolce_

My first Christmas with him was unorthodox.

I was so very young, perhaps not so much in years but certainly in maturity. I was little more than a child, really. Just a child, sobbing on the frigid floor of the chapel in the Garnier, while the December chill that seeped into my bones only added to my despair. At a time when most children were excitedly awaiting the arrival of Saint Nicholas, I was inconsolable, grief-stricken and mourning a man ten nearly interminable years deceased.

He died in autumn, but Christmas was always when I missed him most.

There were moments when I could still hear the stroke of my father's bow over the strings of his beloved violin as he prepared to play "Stille Nacht," could still remember that inimitable style with which he dragged the horsehair across the open E and brought forth a beauty so remarkable that it seemed irreverent to breathe.

Such beauty ceased to exist when my father's life did.

Remembering, _despairing_ , I whispered into the silence, "Father, why did you leave me alone?"

The response was immediate, the high and pure sound of the open E, sweeter than I'd ever heard it from my father's earthly bow. The note lingered and soared, its ethereal presence stopping the breath in my lungs until it moved into the familiar pattern of the Christmas hymn.

 _Silent night, holy night_. My mind pondered lyrics I had sung from my earliest moments. _Indeed. Surely this could have come only from the very throne of God._

Hours passed… or perhaps only minutes. Tears ceased, fears calmed. Only peace remained.

When the music faded away, I whispered softly, "Thank you, Father."

An unearthly sigh echoed in my head, "You are never alone, child."

I have never known how to describe his music, but I have always measured it in moments of withheld breath.

 _Bellicoso_

My second Christmas with him was uneasy.

Our roles had changed rapidly, almost whimsically, always dramatically. We had spent months as angelic teacher and corporeal student, hours as seducer and seduced, weeks as betrayed and betrayer, a few terrifying moments as attempted murderer and victim, and now additional months as predator and prey.

Erik, as I know him now, took me through such dizzying extremes of emotion that I barely knew how to respond.

Following my experience in the chapel, I had lain awake every night for weeks, longing for more of the violinist's sublime tones… and for more of his inner reassurances that my solitude was over. I had nearly given up.

Sleep was near me that night, as I had taken to humming "Stille Nacht" as my own private lullaby. It was not the first night of this practice, and I have never known why Erik chose that particular moment to announce his presence. I only know that I am glad he did.

I was even more glad when his tutelage transformed my voice into an instrument of extraordinary beauty, rivaling even his otherworldly violin.

I was gladder still on the night he finally introduced himself to me in person, weaving a spell upon me with the power of the only instrument I've ever heard that steals more of my breath than his violin: His voice.

I was less glad the next morning, when I chose to remove his mask in order to see the face that produced that voice. It was death that took my breath away then.

I was still less glad when I stood under the chandelier and watched it fall, a massive heap of metal and glass hurtling toward me at breathtaking velocity.

I was glad when Raoul took my arm and pulled me heartily away from certain death. I was even more glad when he took me from the opera house that night. I was gladder still when Christmas Day brought his offer of a life of stability and a promise of forever, all accompanied by a glittering diamond band.

I was less glad when Raoul immediately turned to request my favorite Christmas hymn from his hired violinist. I was still less glad to see the man immediately lift his bow to bring it into position.

I was indescribably glad to hear a sublimely pure E resound throughout Raoul's villa before the musician's bow could ever hit the string.

I was still less glad to hear the whisper that reverberated in my mind, "You are never alone, Christine."

I have never known how to describe my own emotions, but I have always measured them in degrees of gladness.

 _Legato (joined)_

My third Christmas with Erik was unexpected.

Months earlier, an intertwining of lips and intermingling of tears had set my feet on an entirely different path. Even as Raoul poled us safely away from that underground abode, I knew only one truth from the depths of my being.

I would return to Erik.

His willingness to let me go bound me to him more surely than the thickest chain.

Raoul could not understand my decision to break our engagement. How could he? He knew nothing of the breathtaking beauty of the violin's open E string, had never seen the tremble of deathly pale fingers ghosting over black and white keys when some long-sought-after note finally burst forth with power and clarity from my throat, had not _felt through joined lips_ the moment when my powerful captor went to his figurative knees in submission before me.

Raoul thought me mad. Perhaps I was.

Perhaps I am.

Nevertheless, I do not regret returning those sparkling diamonds to him. They were never quite right for my finger anyway.

I do not regret gently rejecting his earnest words of love. They were never quite right for my ears.

I do not regret turning down his promise of a lifetime of stability. It was never quite right for my heart.

I do not regret never receiving his kiss again. It was never quite right for my lips.

What is right for my finger is the opal ring Erik has just placed on it, those deathly pale fingers trembling just slightly while tears of joy coursed down my cheeks and his.

What is right for my ears the sound of horsehair dragged across an open E string, its perfect sublimity stopping my breath yet again.

What is right for my heart is feeling Erik's surprised gasp as I wrap my arms around him from behind, the last notes of "Stille Nacht" still lingering in the air.

What is right for my lips is whispering, "You are never alone, my love," before touching them to his.

I have never known how to describe my love, but I have always measured it in Christmases.


End file.
